


All Hallows' Eve

by isitandwonder



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: A Ghost Story, Halloween, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 23:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16418486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: There are nights in which the boundaries between the worlds become permeable...





	All Hallows' Eve

**Author's Note:**

> My story for the Halloween Challenge!
> 
> This is obviously fiction!

“Hey, Timbo, man, where are you going?”

_Timbo._

Seriously?

Timmy stared back at Rob – well, he tried at least but somehow his eyes didn’t want to focus on his co-star. Maybe because the floor of the club was tilting… no, wait, the whole room was spinning…

Woah!

Timmy flung out his right arm, reaching for a nearby table, but the treacherous piece of furniture had somehow moved away and all his fingers made contact with was soft, sweaty skin. He pulled back but not fast enough. Lilly turned, shaking her head (or maybe not, Timmy wasn’t sure).

“Jesus, Timothée-,“ the rest of her reproach was drowned out by the music but it was already enough for Timmy to see her angry face and watch her mouth contort into an ugly grimace. He staggered backwards, away from her and Rob, only to crash into a waiter, knocking the tray he was carrying out of his hands. Various liquids spilled all over Timmy’s shirt – Gucci, for fuck’s sake! – drenching him in a cloud of spirit fumes.

He retched, mumbled something he hoped sounded like an apology and tried to locate the exit. He had to get out of here before he embarrassed himself further.

Gladly, the wall of bodies in front of him parted – probably sensing that otherwise he might projectile vomit all over their expensive attire – showing him the path to freedom.

He stumbled into the street. The cold air helped a little. He could breathe again. After a moment of staggering along the pavement, away from the club and the smokers lingering in front of it, he leaned against a brick wall under one of the streetlamps and took his phone out.

No new messages.

Fuck!

He started retching again, spitting onto the pavement. He wished he had a bottle of water.

A security guy approached him.

“You all right, mate?”

_‘No! No, I’m fucking NOT all right! I tried to drown my disappointment in Tequila tonight but no matter how much I drink I can’t forget that a certain someone couldn’t be bothered to send at least a fucking text.’_

Did he actually say that out loud?

Timmy didn’t even expect a call. But a simple message? Was that too much to ask? _‘Break a leg’_ or even a generic _‘All the best’_. Was he not entitled to at least mere civility after taking someone’s cock up the ass?

True, that had been over three years ago. True, Armie just welcomed baby number three into this world. But still… did what they had in Crema mean nothing?

Maybe Armie was still pissed off that Timmy had won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for Beautiful Boy while he hadn’t been nominated yet again? But that wasn’t Timmy’s fault! He’d give the bloody thing back if it would result in Armie calling him. Just once.

He felt himself getting upset again. Really upset. Not good.

He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t do what he did the other night and leave a flood of angry, hurt, pathetic messages on Armie’s voice mail until the phone had gotten turned off altogether.

No, he definitely wouldn’t do that.

The TALK they’d had the next day had been mortifying. Armie had actually threatened to change his number should Timmy do something like that again.

He sighed.

The message was clear.

Tonight had been the world premiere of The King in London. Timmy’s first big lead role. And Armie didn’t as much as send him one short text.

Timmy leaned his head back against the brick wall but with too much force. The loud thud of bone against stone was followed by pain exploding inside his skull.

“Hey.” The guard who still stood in front of Timmy reached for him. “Steady, man. Do you need something?”

“Noooo.” Timmy slurred even this short word. “I’m finnneee.” He touched the back of his head. A bump was already growing beneath his short curls.

“Okay. Just, be careful with them folks around. It’s a little crazy tonight.”

What? Oh, yes, it was Halloween. Some overpaid PR genius had decided to launch the film on Halloween. Whatever. It must be way too late for kids to go trick-or-treating. Timmy tried to zone in on the time on his mobile. Almost midnight.

When he looked up the security guy had wandered off. He was alone.

His head hurt. He had an awful taste in his mouth. He started getting cold. And tired. He was just so tired lately.

Better get back inside, grab his coat, find Brian and let him deal with everything while making a low-key exit.

Timmy pushed away from the wall but the wet cobblestones were too slippery for his dress shoes. Should have worn his sneakers, he thought, as he skittered over the pavement. A thick fog was creeping up from the river. His hair started to frizz and curl.

Suddenly, he heard a noise close by. A sigh? A cough? Was that Lilly? But when he turned there was no one to be seen. 

The quick movement made him stumble. As he tried to regain his balance, he dropped his phone. It slid along the sidewalk and disappeared in the darkness outside the beam of light cast by the streetlamp.

“Fuck, no! No!”

Not his phone, his lifeline to Armie! He went down on all four and started crawling over the cobblestones, looking for his dainty mobile. _‘Please, be still in one piece.’_ He prayed.

“Timothée?”

He clearly heard his name this time. It was a female voice. She sounded uncertain and a little frightened. Definitively not Lilly.

But as he looked up and around he was alone.

God, Tequila made him freak out every fucking time!

“Timothée.” The voice now came from down the street. Timmy shivered. He sat up, peered into the white fog eerily illuminating the darkness. Why was it so dark? Hadn’t there been a lamppost next to the entrance of the posh East End club they were partying in?

And where the fuck was his goddam phone?

He only realized that he had crawled into the middle of the road when a car’s front lights pierced the gray fog. He knew he didn’t have a chance. Crouching on the ground, the driver couldn’t even see him and slow down.

_‘So, that’s it.’_ Timmy thought. He felt surprisingly calm. Going out with a bang, on the night of his biggest triumph. He closed his eyes. His last thought was _‘Good-bye Armie’._

Suddenly, icy fingers grabbed his shoulders and hurled him back onto the sidewalk. The black cab drove by, the cabbie giving him a two fingered salute, shouting “Fuckin’ wanker!”

Timmy lay back, breathing hard. What the fuck did just happen?

He leaned up when he heard footsteps, walking away from him.

“Hey!” He shouted. “Who’s there? Wait!”

Despite his trembling legs he got up and ran after the person, feeling suddenly much more sober. Must be the shock.

“Please, wait…”

He set off into the foggy darkness.

When he rounded a corner, he suddenly saw a tall, thin figure in the shadows of a large building, looking at the ground. Long dress, long hair, a checkered scarf wound around narrow shoulders… a woman?

“Sorry, was that you who-“

“Timothée.” He heard his name again, loud and clear. Took another step in the direction of the eerie figure.

“Do I know you?”

“You didn’t change. Everything else changed so much but you didn’t.” The voice sounded soft but also strangely raspy, with the hint of an accent Timmy couldn’t place.

He tilted his head, stared, but couldn't make out a face. It was still hidden in the shadows, covered by thin strands of brownish hair. A pale hand was wrapped around the neck, smeared with a dark substance.

Timmy suddenly grinned, feeling both relieved and a little embarrassed.

“Who are you? Is this a joke? Rob, are you trying to scare me?” Timmy took a step forward. Why was it so dark here? “Great costume, by the way?”

“They never found him, you know. All those years and they didn’t find him. But I’m glad you’re doing fine, lad. Where’s Armand?”

Armand? Okay, this had to be a joke. With a few long strides Timmy approached the fucker who thought this was all a laugh. “Rob, I swear to god, if you’re trying to take the piss-“

He reached for the scarf and pulled. It was moist, sticky. He stared down at his hands then up again.

“Oh, Timothée.” The figure sighed. Now he clearly saw that it was a middle-aged woman with a pale face that seemed somewhat... distorted. Well, maybe because her throat was slit, almost decapitating her? Blood oozed out from the deep wound to her neck, dripping from the slash barely covered by spidery fingers. Timmy clutched the shawl to his chest, then dropped it. He felt nauseous again. The cold air smelled of iron and decay.

The woman reached for him. Crimson rivulets sprayed everywhere.

He wanted to run but his feet were rooted to the ground.

“What the fuck…?”

A cold hand touched his cheek.

“Come with me, lad. Armand is waiting.”

The woman now stood so close Timmy could see her dead, broken eyes. He wanted to scream. As he opened his mouth the air tasted like blood. Then everything went black.

^^^^^^

“Hey! Hey, boy. Wake up.” Something cold is pressed against Timmy's face and he gasps, opening his eyes.

His vision is blurred at first but it gets better as a wet flannel is rubbed over his face again.

“Ah! Now you wake up.”

Timmy would know this voice anywhere, even with this hilarious Russian accent.

“Armie?” Timmy stares up into the familiar face. So that's why Armie didn't call or texted. He came to London instead, in person! What a surprise. Timmy's whole body is flooded with warmth.

A woman laughs.

“You hear that, Liz? What boy said?”

“Yeah, loud and clear, Armand.”

Liz? Armand?

A woman walks into view. She's wearing a long, old-fashioned dress, her hair done up in a lose bun. A checkered shawl is draped around her shoulders.

What's going on here? A Halloween hoax? Did Liz accompany Armie? Is that her costume? It's too dusky to see her face clearly. And why is Armie speaking with a heavy Russian accent?

“Why do you talk like Ilya, Armie?

“Ilya? Who is Ilya?”

“Maybe the little pet got hit over his head?” The woman - Liz? - cackles.

Timmy has enough. This is getting ridiculous. He sits up abruptly. His head is indeed pounding as he tries to take in his surroundings.

He seems to be in some kind of attic room. It's gloomy, the walls curved, the ceiling low. The only light comes from a lantern on a hook dangling from a wooden beam. As he inhales deeply the smell almost makes him throw up: damp wool, fish, something sickeningly sweat mixed with the sour stench of sweat and piss...

He retches, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth.

“Oh, no, don’t... not on them sheets!”

The woman passes him a tin bucket. Something slimy swims at its bottom in some kind of dark brew. The intense stink of shit makes Timmy recoil. He scoots back on the bed he's apparently sitting on until he hits the wall.

“Armie... what?” He stares at Armie, expecting him to break into one of his laughing fits any moment now for playing this juvenile trick on Timmy. But Armie just stares back at him, confused and worried. His blond hair got a bit longer since they last saw each other, but that's already been months ago. He has a thick blond beard by now, too. Timmy likes it. Yet his shirt looks somehow strange, vintage. What designer is that?

“Why you say Armie?” Armie leans forward. He smells of tobacco and beer and cheap soap.

“Armie, stop that.” Timmy’s voice is shaking. He feels close to tears.

Now the woman – Liz? - sits down on the bed and reaches for Timmy's face. Her fingernails are dirty, her hands rough and veined. As Timmy stares into her face she looks like at least sixty. Thin hair, thin lips, wrinkles everywhere.

“Hey, there, calm down, pet.” When she speaks Timmy can see that at least one of her front teeth is missing. She sounds English but there is a hint of an accent to her voice as well.

What an elaborate charade.

“He was drunk. You can still smell the booze on him.” Liz says, pointing at Timmy's shirt while looking back to Armie. Timmy hazily remembers knocking a tray out of a waiter’s hand. Or had that been a dream?

“Get that off, lad, I'll wash it.” The woman starts to unbutton his shirt.

What the fuck is going on here?

He jumps as her spindly fingers touch him.

“Hey, what the fuck, get off of me!” He tries to escape but the wall behind him doesn't allow for it.

“Honey, you think I've never seen a naked man in my life before?” A bout of laughter errupts from her wiry body, shaking her scraggy frame until she starts choughing. There are more teeth missing. Armie laughs as well, shaking his head.

“Maybe he shy?” He says. “Look, face all red.”

Timmy feels like being trapped in a nightmare.

“Armie, please...” They have to stop this!

“The name is Armand. Armand Hammer.” Armie says.

“I know. But everyone calls you Armie!” Timmy is almost screaming by now. Armie and Liz exchange a look.

“No.” Armie just says.

“Dear, everyone calls him Armand.”

Timmy buries his face in his hands. His head hurts. He’s thirsty. He has no idea why Armie is playing this stupid game with him but he's had enough.

“I think I better go back to the party.” He clambers out of the bed and almost trips over the foul bucket.

“See, Armand, a party. He got drunk, couldn't find his way home and decided to fall asleep on the steps of the club. Where you found him. No big deal.” Liz wipes her hands on her threadbare dress.

But Timmy doesn't really listen. He pads his trouser pockets for his phone before he remembers that he lost it. “Fuck.” So no Google maps to get him back to the club. He tries to remember the address. All that he comes up with is somewhere near Commercial Road.

“Okay. Haha, you had your fun.” He walks towards the door. He feels humiliated. Why is Armie doing this – the fake Russian accent, the strange attire, the whole set-up? Is this some sort of weird surprise? Or is he purposefully ruining Timmy’s day after weeks of silence, one last blow to set Timmy packing?

He turns, suddenly furious. “You know, you’re such an asshole!”

Armie stares blankly back at him. The woman steps between them. “Now, come off it, darling. Armand scooped you up and brought you here. Who knows what others might’ve done with some little snack like you.”

“What the hell... no, never mind.” Timmy just wants to run. He opens the door and walks out onto a narrow, dark staircase. It smells of cabbage. He remembers his grandma cooking it.

Carefully, he feels his way downstairs. There's another door at the end of a hallway. Through a dirty window above a gray sky is visible. So it's already morning. Shit! Brian will be furious.

Only, all thoughts about his agent are wiped away when Timmy opens the door and gets the shock of his lifetime.

Because there are carriages. With horses. Carts full of coal, fruit, fish, potatoes. Men wear brown suits, waistcoats and bowler hats. Women wear crinolines.

He thinks he's stumbled back into Little Women. But then there's the smell of dirt, shit, rot, fire. He can't see a camera. Or lights. 

Does he still dream?

What in god's name...?

A newspaper boy runs past him, shouting. Timmy stops him. “Hey, sorry, where am I? What day is it?” He asks.

The boy stares up at him. His small face is dirty, his eyes are read.

“Wha’?” He's barefoot, greasy hair poking out from under an equally greasy cap.

“What day is it?”

The boy spits out and only misses Timmy's polished shoes by an inch.

“No'emba' firs’, eightee’eightee’sev’, Sir.”

Timmy has to grab the doorframe. He feels like fainting. He reaches for a paper from the boy's arm and stares at the date on its margin. And stares. Until the boy tears the paper from his hand and runs off, muttering what sounds like an extremely rude insult.

Timmy stumbles back inside, back up the stairs. Where else can he go? As he staggers back inside the small room Liz is sitting on the bed, skirts up to her waist, unbuttoning her boots and rolling down her stockings, the fabric riddled with holes. Timmy sees the blue veins beneath her pale skin and feels his knees give out.

Armie catches him before he hits the floor.

“Easy.” He mumbles, guiding Timmy over to a bench next to a cast-iron stove. Gets him a glass full of a brownish liquid from a flask on the table. It tastes sharp and bitter but warms Timmy from the inside.

Everything is spinning. His head feels like it might explode. He doesn't let go of Armie's shoulder, buries his face against his chest, starts sobbing.

Armie pats his back, hugs him, holds him. His shirt smells of sweat and woodfire. It’s rather nice. The rough linen feels strangely comforting, real.

Timmy inhales, counts to five, exhales. Slowly calms down a little. Sits up, leans back.

“Do you know who I am?” He asks, staring up at the man next to him.

Armie shakes his head.

“Timothée. Chalamet. Tim. Ring any bells?”

“Oh, sounds French.” Liz chimes in but Timmy ignores her.

“No.” Armie says. His eyes are deep blue. Kind. But he looks worried. Almost sad.

Timmy nods. Frowns. “So, where am I?”

“Whitechapel.” Armie says.

Timmy pinches the back of his hand. “Okay. That’s good. Do you know Commercial Road? Can you take me there?”

“Sure. Now?” Armie asks.

“Yes!”

“Of course. Liz?” But as they turn towards the bed the gaunt woman has already fallen asleep, stripped down to a stained underskirt and moth-eaten corset.

Timmy shudders and is relieved when Armie closes the door behind them.

^^^^^^

The Commercial Road Armie takes him to doesn't much resemble the street Timmy knows. He thinks he remembers a few buildings but has to realize that the whole quarter looks unfamiliar. There are loads of small shops selling all sorts of things and the pavements are bustling with people in Victorian attire. Narrow dark side streets lead into the labyrinthian courts and alleys of the East End.

They walk the whole length of the street up and down twice, Armie patiently by Timmy's side, while Timmy hopes he might recognize something, get a clue what happened to him, how it happened. Maybe seeing something he remembers from his own time could work like a trigger or an anchor and pull him back over?

But he finds nothing.

In the end, Armie suggest they go for a drink. Timmy has no strength left to argue against it.

They sit down at a table in a somewhat grimy pub and Armie gets them two pints and two brandies. The alcohol burns in Timmy's empty stomach.

“So, what you look for?” Armie's English is broken at best, Timmy realizes.

“I don't know... something to jock my memory. I... have no idea where I am or how I ended up here.”

“Oh, I know. Alcohol. Cheap drink. Evil.” Armie touches his forehead. “It will come back.”

Timmy shrugs, stares out of the dirty window into the busy street.

“Where are you from?” Armie asks after a while.

Timmy hesitates. The future? Aloud he says, remembering Liz’s comment: “France.”

“Ah. Me... from Russia. St. Petersburg.”

“Oh.” Timmy doesn't know what else to say.

“But England... is shit.” Armie knocks back his beer, shakes his head. “America. That good.”

“You wanna go to America?”

“Yes. Back in Russia I am... how do you say? I make medicine.”

“A doctor? Pharmacists?”

“Yes!” Armand smiles. “I know I not talk good. Stupid. I am not. I go to university.” His big grin is Armie's grin. Timmy has to grab his glass to stop his hands from shaking. Or reaching over.

“But why did you come here?”

Armand sighs. “Russia no good for my people.” He looks suddenly pensive. Timmy cocks his head.

“Jew.” Armand whispers.

Oh.

Timmy opens his collar and reaches in. He's still always wearing Elio's necklace, his Star of David. It reminds him of happy times. When Armand sees it his face lights up but he quickly closes his fist around both Timmy's fingers and the pendant.

“Better not. When people see. Even here, better are... Jews of discretion.”

“Why?” Timmy is at a loss. He's never encountered real antisemitism in his life.

“Because English don't like us. Say we too many. Taking away jobs, money.” Armand seems agitated, angry at his own lack of appropriate words. “Like always. Everywhere. But America is good.”

He carefully puts the chain back inside Timmy’s shirt.

“What do you do here, then?”

“Waiting. Saving. Protecting Liz and other girls. I'm big. Punters are afraid.” Armand smiles again, this time a little dangerous. “Selling medicine.”

“Oh. Okay. So, Liz is not your wife then?” Timmy actually feels a bit better right away.

Armand chuckles. “No.” He looks down onto the table, then back up at Timmy. His eyes are really very blue. Friendly, almost tender. “No.” He says a little softer.

Their glasses are all empty. Armand asks: “Another?”

Timmy shrugs, nods. Reaches inside his pockets. Blushes. “I know it's my round but... I have no money.” He bites his lips.

Armand touches his arm as if to show that it’s okay, gets up and gets a second round. When he returns they clink glasses.

“You are beauty. Men love. You earn money like Liz. No shame in it.” He drowns his brandy.

Timmy almost spits out his beer.

“What?”

“Oh, many guardsmen around here, making extra money. Also pretty boys like you, who look like girls. No big deal.”

This is getting kind of surreal. Timmy feels buzzed already. Apparently, he somehow traveled back into the 19th century and now a man who looks like Armand tells him he should start turning tricks. Well, it's just one of those days...

“How on earth… What are you talking about? What do you know about it?” Timmy asks, reckless from two pints before midday.

Now it's Armand's turn to blush. “I am not a ladies man.” He says eventually, staring right into Timmy's eyes.

Okay. Timmy picks his brain as how to say this delicately. But he has to be sure. “So, you are like... Oscar Wilde?” He’s read Maurice. After all, he starred in a James Ivory movie.

Armand frowns. “No, I'm not in theater.”

Shit! 1887! Too early. Did he just out Wilde? Jesus, this is getting complicated. Timmy suddenly wishes he'd listened better in history class instead of memorizing Kid Cudi lyrics.

“Well, I am. An actor.” Timmy takes a sip of his brandy and coughs. Armand snickers.

“Really? Then show me, French boy Timothée.”

Timmy feels lightheaded. What the fuck? Why not? No one knows him here. He won't even be born for over a hundred years. 

So fuck it.

He gets up, steps onto the table. Armand scoots his chair back and smiles that smile again, full of warmth, affection and admiration. A smile Timmy hasn't seen in a long while.

He looks around. Swallows. Closes his eyes. Sways a little as he raises his voice:

“Yeah the crazy the wizard  
So much whiskey all in my liver  
I really like the punch it delivers  
Makes me warm while I high five sinners  
All alone trying to hide from the shadows  
Ain't no use, it seems everywhere they follow  
They know where I be at, in my mind tryna get me  
These worries are heavy, they rest on my shoulders  
My body won't let me fall victim no more…”

The noisy pub falls silent as Timmy recites those verses, his voice rising and falling, the words he knows by heart coming with an urgency he’s never felt before. In his situation the lyrics get a whole new meaning.

The other patrons seem to get it as well, this feeling of despair, anger, hopelessness. They connect, staring up at him reciting words of universal truth to the sick, the poor, the disillusioned, the outcasts.

When he finishes there’s silence before the pub breaks out into cheers. Money’s thrown at him, drinks arrive at their table.

Timmy steps back down again and Armand looks at him with big eyes full of wonder.

“What was that?” He makes a vague gesture with his huge hands. “A poem?”

“Something like that, yeah. It’s… a new thing… in America.” He feels his face heat as he gathers up unfamiliar coins and raises his third pint. He’s already drunk but what else is there for him to do?

“America? You be in America?” Armand leans forward, eager, curious.

Timmy nods. “Yeah. And I'd really like to go back there.” He sighs. Right now, he’d give his right arm to wake up from this nightmare in his apartment in New York.

“We go together.” Armand says, clinking their glasses.

Timmy grins. “Yeah, man, why not?” It had been his dream all along, being with Armie in New York. His head starts swimming as he empties another glass but at least his mood is heightened. He stares at the money on the table: “Do you have any idea how much this is?”

Armie carefully takes the coins and counts them, silently moving his lips. When he looks up he seems very pleased. “We get food. And go to bath.”

When they finally end up at the bathhouse in Goulston Square Timmy is wasted and has to steady himself against the tiled wall of his small cubicle while undressing. Yet sinking down into the zinc tub feels heavenly. His stiff muscles relax. He floats. The warm water lulls him in and he must have fallen asleep because he can’t remember Armand entering his stall but when Timmy opens his eyes there he is, bare-chested and wet and strong, sitting in his tub, smiling shyly.

They stare at each other in silence before Armand’s right hand slowly drifts over, ending up on Timmy’s left knee. His thumb starts circling his knee cap and that’s when Timmy can feel himself get hard, his legs falling open.

He’s naked in a bath with a man that isn’t Armie but looks like Armie. Who touches him in a more than obvious way. He’s also trapped in a nightmare, in a timeline he shouldn’t be in, in a place that’s alien and probably unsafe for many reasons.

Or maybe he’s just going mad?

So why not make the best of it?

Armand is still looking at him with those serious, kind blue eyes when Timmy leans over and clambers into his lap. Water sloshes all around them and Armand's mouth tastes of brandy when Timmy pushes his tongue inside it and there is a slight difference to kissing the other Armie but it’s a good difference because this Armie here opens without hesitation while cupping Timmy’s shoulder blades with his big palms as he pulls him close and it feels just so good that Timmy moans into his mouth and sucks and licks and moans some more...

“Shhh.” Armand presses a finger to Timmy’s lips that he bites playfully, and then more water spills over as they start to rut against each other, their hard cocks meeting below the surface, slippery from the soap.

It doesn’t take long. Armand comes when Timmy whispers “I need you to fuck me” into his ear, biting down on Timmy’s shoulder to stifle the noise. Feeling his body arch, muscles contracting, sends Timmy over the edge as well and he slumps down against Armand’s chest, breathing heavily.

The water has gone cold. Timmy just feels tired.

Somehow, they manage to return to the small attic room. Liz is gone. Timmy falls into bed and doesn’t even care that the sheets smell of sweat and cabbage and mold but simply passes out, his brain switching off to allow him some oblivion.

Maybe when he wakes up it will all be over?

It isn’t.

Armand wakes him sometime later with food. He got some bread and cheese and apples and cold meat that Timmy knows he should probably not eat – who knows what diseases he might catch, worms maybe, or the plague? – but he’s famished by now and if this is his life it’ll better be over soon anyway. The room is dark and cold, the only light coming from a single candle and when Timmy starts to shiver Armand wraps him first up in a ratty quilt and then in his arms which ends with them both naked quite quickly under the dirty covers.

They don’t use any protection and just some vile smelling grease for lube but it doesn’t really matter because Timmy is riding that fat cock he felt against his belly earlier and if he has to live in this nightmare he can at least get dicked down properly.

This Armie proves again to be much more assured than his. They’d rarely fucked after Crema. Because Armie had felt bad about it. When they did, it was almost mechanical, quick, always initiated by Timmy and left him feeling hollow.

Armie had loved a handjob, though, or Timmy on his knees, sucking him off, opening wide to allow his mouth being fucked, his curls falling into his face until Armie had pulled them, hard. These encounters had seized as well, though, after Timmy got a haircut and had left for six months to film in Hungary. When he came back Armie had told him he looked like a man now.

Which meant unfuckable.

TIFF had been the last time they touched, desperate fumbling on a restaurant's toilet Armie had aborted half way through, leaving Timmy feel silly, raw and very young.

This Armie here however is both careful and committed. He holds Timmy’s hips firmly and spurs him on in what must be Russian. His voice is deep and guttural and Timmy feels it in his belly. This Armie first laughs and then moans when Timmy shoots all over his furry chest before fucking up into him in earnest to come deep inside him.

He doesn’t leave the bed afterwards but pulls Timmy close and kisses him softly until he falls asleep again.

Timmy wakes up at dawn when the door opens with a loud squeak. Liz stumbles in and doesn't even look at them twice before crawling into bed and under the blanket. She's cold and smells of beer and rain. Timmy just rolls over and buries his face against Armand's shoulder before he drifts off again.

It becomes his new normal.

For a few weeks, they share the small room and the one bed in it. Money is tight but they all throw in together and manage. Timmy hopes less and less to wake up because even if this is a nightmare, it has its perks. Armand is a passionate lover. Liz doesn't mind that they fuck on every available surface. On the contrary, she grins at them and gently mocks Timmy when she catches him in just his shirt sitting in Armand’s lap.

Friends and neighbors don’t mind either. “One bloke less gettin’ into me knickers” seems to be the consent of the women, followed by “It’s none of my damned business what you do. And no one gets into trouble.” Everyone around them is too busy to survive to spare whatever they do in bed much thought. 

“Modesty is for rich people. They can afford it. We here do as we please.” Liz snickers and Armand gives Timmy a smack on the ass that makes him laugh.

So there’s no need to hide – at least in private. That’s a whole new concept Timmy can’t get enough of.

To bump their income Liz takes him to the pubs she frequents and there he recites explicit hip hop lyrics that the cheering crowd calls bawdy. Everyone seems to love it and when Liz collects the pennies afterwards she smiles happily and pinches Timmy’s cheeks. 

In December, a manager of a local vaudeville show asks him if he wants to perform in their Christmas panto.

The theater smells of sawdust, sweat and lamp oil but he's standing on a stage again, and the audience applauds and whistles. The money he brings home is enough to rent the mansard next to Liz to give him and Armand some privacy.

Privacy Armand needs for his line of work. By now, Timmy knows that he's studied to be some kind of doctor or apothecary back in St. Petersburg. He's not allowed to practice in England but that doesn't stop him from putting his knowledge to good use. Liz and many of her friends consult him, as do even respectable women Timmy sometimes sees leaving, faces veiled as they climb hurriedly into their Hansom.

He doesn't ask what Armand does exactly but from time to time there's a bucket filled with something bloody on the stairs and Liz sits up during the night, tending to some poor girl, pale and gaunt, crying and clutching her hand. During those nights Timmy goes on a bender and doesn't return till morning.

Armand saves the money in a tin sitting under their bed.

“For two ship tickets.” He tells Timmy when they lie next to each other, naked, exhausted and extremely satisfied. His English is getting better and better thanks to Timmy's efforts. Yet the accent is still audible and Timmy loves it, as much as he loves Armand's beard scratching the inside of his legs as he mumbles Russian expletives against his skin; as much as he loves his strong, calloused hands on his body; as much as he loves the wild, uninhibited kisses and the tender embrace after he comes deep inside Timmy’s body.

“New York.” Timmy closes his eyes and almost starts crying.

After the last performance of the night, he often wanders the dark streets of the East End. Is he still looking for a way out, an escape? He's not sure. This life feels increasingly good and whole but also surreal. He fears committing to it because he might still wake up or be plugged from it like it happened with his other life. 

Armand seems to feel that because he calls Timmy 'metschtatel' - dreamer.

“Head in the clouds, that what you are. Sometimes I wander where you are.”

“Wonder. You wonder.” Timmy says and kisses him and kisses him and starts to forget everything else when Armand pushes his hands under his shirt and touches him.

When spring turns into summer the vaudeville tours the seaside. Timmy misses Armand fiercely but the money is good and the air is clean. He suddenly realizes how he got used to having Armand around, to share his stories with him, to hear him laugh at a silly joke, to feel his body sleep next to his own. 

Upon Timmy’s returns Armand kisses every new freckle the Southern England sun brought out on his white skin until Timmy is a giggling mess.

The first murder victim is found shortly after Timmy comes back from Bournemouth. Liz knew her. Everyone is shocked for a day but then people die around them all the time so it's not that big deal, really.

When rumors spread about a brutal slasher Liz just shrugs. “What can I do? Not walk the streets at night? Shall I stop going with strangers?” She giggles. “Better quickly have your throat cut and be done with it than slowly starving to death, don’t you think?”

There’s nothing Timmy can say to this. Because he knows. He knows what will happen but he can’t tell anyone. Who would believe him? Would it make a difference?

He tries to talk to Armand though. Tries to persuade him to warn his clients to be careful. Tries to explain that the murderer will kill again. Armand listens, shakes his head, calls him _'dreamer'_ again.

The gossip is spreading. It’s a butcher, some say. Or a doctor. The stories try to surpass each other. Her eyes were carved out. Her bowels were draped around her shoulders...

It’s a cult, some say. The free masons. 

Or the Jews.

Armand starts to look worried. He makes Timmy put his Magen David into the tin under their bed, next to his savings.

Timmy remembers watching a movie with Lilly's dad in it when the second woman is found. He wishes he could recall names and dates but all he sees in his mind is Johnny Depp in a bathtub drinking Absinthe. Not really helpful.

Things turn ugly. The press describes the murderer as sinister looking, with a crooked nose, wearing a long black coat. Everybody knows what that means.

Jewish children get spat on. Jewish men have their payot cut off.

Once again, their people are blamed. There's talk that the murderer slaughters the girls like a Jew, lets them bleed out before eating parts of their bodies. 

The atmosphere becomes increasingly hostile, even violent. Something is brewing. Armand gets more and more nervous. He’s seen all this before. At night, in bed, he begs Timmy to be careful, to come straight home from the music hall. He even turns up to walk Timmy home. His clients dwindle. Women are more and more afraid to set foot in the East End. 

When Timmy gets booed out on stage and called a bloody Yid the director recommends a break.

On the night of the 30th September 1888 Liz doesn't come home. In the morning they hear the news. She was found near the International Working Men's Education Club Armand frequents regularly. Another woman got killed the same night. It's varnage.

They both feel devastated. Not just because Liz is gone. But also because of the spreading hate and mistrust. They assess their situation and decide a few days later to book a one-way passage from Liverpool to New York. Their ship will sail November 2nd.

They use the time left to sell what little they own and mostly stay in their room, in bed. Their lovemaking becomes almost brutal sometimes as they claw at each other to forget, to lose themselves in the feeling of becoming one.

Liz’s death has seriously shaken Timmy. Suddenly, this life is real. Because he could die here. _‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’_ He thinks.

Much more disturbing, though, is the thought of losing Armand. He couldn’t deal with that.

Timmy knows that going to New York is the final step, a commitment to _this_ life. And why not? Apart from the horrors around them, Armand loves him. A week before their departure he even gives him a ring. He had to pawn his father's fob watch – one of the few things he brought with him from Russia – but he says it's worth it. No use clinging to the past, he tells Timmy as he puts the band on his finger. Because having a future together is what counts.

Timmy wipes his eyes and laughs at the same time. In this century they'll never be able to marry. This is the closest to it they can get.

That night Timmy whispers “Call me by your name and I call you by mine” and his lover calls him Armand and he calls him Timothée and then Timmy fucks him for the first time until Armand screams his name – or _his_ name – into the dark Whitechapel night full of dread and death and love and hope.

They've packed a gripsack each, just taking their best clothes and some of Armand's books as well as a folder with reviews from Timmy's performances. It had been a bit tricky to obtain documents for Timmy but friends of friends helped them to get a birth certificate. The poor dead bugger had been called Douglas Julius Smith and died an infant twenty-three years ago in Clerkenwell, but now he will be resurrected in America. Life can be funny sometimes, Timmy muses.

“I never call you Douglas.” Armand tells him as he stares down at the piece of paper. “Or Julius.”

Timmy shrugs and kisses him. “You don’t have to.”

Armand never asks about Timmy’s past as if he senses there are things better kept untold. Timmy suspects he has ghosts he wants to bury himself. A fresh start is what they both need.

While Armand cleans out their room Timmy suddenly feels the need to say good-bye to the streets he's wandered so often over the past year. “Don't be too long.” Armand says. “This night is full of devils. The dead will come back to haunt us.” 

It's All Hallows' Eve.

Timmy wants to laugh it off but can’t. A strange tingle runs down his spine as unease settles in his stomach.

He feels restless. It's like his anxiety pulls him outside and through the dark alleys and courts until he ends up in front of the club where Armand had found him – and behind which Liz was murdered.

On his way, Timmy bought a bouquet of forget-me-nots from a sick-looking street girl, telling her to keep the change and get something hot to drink. He lays the flowers on the ground in the gloomy, smelly courtyard.

“Thank you, Liz, for everything.” He even smiles a little, remembering Liz's drunken rants against landlords and money lenders and punters and men in general ( _'present company excepted, my dears'_ ). He remembers her deep toothless laugh. He remembers her talking about the Swedish countryside where she was born – _'beautiful, green, but the people there were assholes as well’_ – especially the men, of course.

Now she lies in a pauper's grave in Bow and will never see those green meadows again. Timmy doubts she cares but it’s a bit sad nonetheless.

He's been kneeling on the wet ground for too long. He's getting cold. It seems suddenly freezing. Fog wafts through the courtyard. When he slowly gets up there's suddenly an icy hand on his arm.

“Did they find him?” A rough, familiar voice asks. Timmy recognizes Liz's checkered shawl. Her long hair looks darker, soaked in blood. “Why can't they find him?”

Timmy suddenly clearly remembers the first time he saw her. Has she been here all these years, looking for the man who killed her, wandering the streets, unable to rest?

“I don't know, Liz.” He whispers. “But you won't be forgotten.”

She blinks. She seems somehow solid but then not. Her face is too pale; her eyes are broken.

Timmy bends down and picks up the flowers. When her fingers clasp them her mouth contorts into an eerie grin. The violet blooms crumble and turn black.

“You were always special, a special lad. This night is special as well, you know that, don't you? Things happen... during the night...” She turns and starts to walk away. Timmy follows.

“See?” Her thin hand points towards the street. It's bright, too bright. People walk by, wearing jeans and short skirts, staring down at their phones. A cab honks as it drives past. From a club across the street loud music can be heard. Timmy feels the bass in his chest.

On the other side of the road Rob leans against the wall, sharing a smoke with Lilly.

There it is, his old life, playing out like a movie in front of him. He suddenly knows that all he has to do is step out of this yard and onto the brightly lit pavement and he would be back there – here – an actor again with movies coming out, future projects, parents and a sister, friends...

And Armie. Married, closeted, living a continent apart and only using but never loving him.

He stares. Hears the sounds, the music. Takes it all in. The smell is different. A mobile lies at his feet on the cobblestones, smashed to pieces, the pale pink glass glittering under the street lamp.

He feels Liz’s presence next to him, waiting. Turns. Takes a breath. He's just one step away from Kid Cudi and Gucci clothes and iPhones and Sushi and Matcha tea and Starbucks Iced Latte, from Instagram and planes and penicillin and Netflix…

One step away from losing Armand forever.

He touches the ring on his left hand. Remembers Armand crouching on the floor of their small room, trying to fold his large frame to look under the bed, searching for an astray item of clothing they forgot. Checking their luggage again. Imagines him starting to wonder why Timmy is running late. Wonder becoming worry. Worry becoming devastation when he realizes that Timmy got cold feet and left him. That he won’t be going to New York with him.

If Timmy takes this one step Armand will have been dead for decades. Without ever knowing what happened. Why Timmy went out one night and never came back.

Liz is getting impatient. Timmy can feel it.

“Will I... will I still be born when I stay with him?” He asks.

Liz shrugs. “What do I know? No, probably not... but then, you're here, so you have to be born some time, don't you think?” Liz is plugging at the dead flowers in her hand, her dead eyes on Timmy.

He has felt as dead as she looks back in his own time. But with Armand, he's alive.

So he allows himself one last look before he steps back into the shadows, reaches for her cold hand and squeezes it.

“I have a boat to catch.” He says.

Liz's hand squeezes back before she moves away from him, into the light, dissolving in the blinding brightness.

Timmy turns and runs.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I've been playing a little fast and lose with history here. The Hammer who went to New York from Russia or Ukraine was Julius Hammer, born in 1873 in Moscow or Odessa. He had a son named Armand Hammer, born in NY in 1898, who is Armie's great-grandfather. Julius Hammer founded the NY branch of the Socialist Labor Party of America and ran a medical practice and five drugstores in the Bronx. He was also sentenced to three years in prison in 1920 for having performed an abortion. He died in 1948.
> 
> Long Liz Stride is regarded as the third canonical Ripper victim. She was killed on 30th September 1888 in Dutfield Yard, Berner Street, around the corner of Commercial Road. Now a school stands on the premises, as the East End has change a lot since the 19th century, due to slum clearance and the Blitz. Elizabeth Stride had been born in 1843 in Sweden as Elizabeth Gustafsdotter and moved to London in 1866.
> 
> During the 1880s Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe settled in the cheap East End. Antisemitism is feasible during the whole proceedings surrounding the murders. Read up on it here:  
> https://www.jack-the-ripper.org/jewish-history.htm
> 
> Oscar Wilde's plays were not written before the early 1890s.


End file.
